


Fought the Good Fight

by notthekindwithhalos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, Pain, Sadly, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Wings, because i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthekindwithhalos/pseuds/notthekindwithhalos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing he noticed was that something was wrong. He noticed it in the same way you notice a silence, or a darkness, not as a tangible presence but a thing of absences. One moment it was there. Then it was not.<br/>Set during episode 22- "We Happy Few".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fought the Good Fight

The first thing he noticed was that something was wrong. He noticed it in the same way you notice a silence, or a darkness, not as a tangible presence but a thing of absences. One moment it was there. Then it was not. It felt like some part of his soul had gone missing, hell knows he was well versed in missing souls, but this was something else. Something other had gone, only a small fragment of him, but it left a large ugly hole in his being.

Sam Winchester didn’t know what he was missing, but he wanted it back.

There was no time to regroup, this plan had failed so spectacularly, so magnificently that it pretty much eclipsed all errors within human existence. The big G-O-D was dead. Not in the deep faux-philosophical “God is Dead” way that he had read in his angst riddled Nietzsche phase, but in the literal “Chuck Was Dying Right There on the Floor and There Was Nothing He Could Do about It” way. And Sam Winchester had felt a small part of himself die too. Not with Chuck- even he could see that would be arrogant to assume- a small splinter of himself had broken and he couldn’t figure out why.

He felt as if time froze in that moment, and he thought back to every time he had been dying. It had been a similar experience, the memory a vague familiarity, a sense of rightness. But he was not dying. Then what- or who was?

Moving slowly, as if underwater, he swivelled his head. Dean. He was standing, unharmed for the most part. Chuck. Dying, but he couldn’t do anything about that now. Amara. Very much alive. Her fierce glory radiated outwards, catching dust particles in the air, frozen in space.

There. Through the specs of dust he could see one other figure. Lucifer. His vessel lay on the floor, discarded, no longer useable. Inside Sam swore he could see a flicker of life, but it was fleeting. Hovering mere inches from the vessel was Lucifer. He moved slowly, his motions as sluggish as Sam’s, and he looked bad. Real bad. His form was barely corporeal, and he struggled for each breath. It looked as though he had been evicted, cast from his body, and his essence was now fading into the ether.

His head sluggishly turned, and he locked gaze with Sam. His eyes were slowly burning out, the familiar blue no longer visible, the storm exhausted, the ocean stilled. Delicate fractures played along his face, his arms, his body. A network of spider webs traversed his ghostly form. Each fissure glowed, barely able to contain his grace.

_Sam._ His mouth moved, but the sound did not carry. Again. _Sam._ The urgency was felt, but Sam could scarcely move.

He pushed on toward the fallen Archangel, time pulling at his limbs with small hands, each step exhausting. But he had to make it. That he knew of with the same certainty as his own name. He recognised the shape of the hole, a familiar Archangel shape, the shape he had felt unconsciously all his life. He remembered Lucifer’s words all that time ago: _Two halves made whole. We’re M.F.E.O. Literally_. Shame only now he was figuring that out.

“Sam.” This time the words carried, and the small grip on his limbs was loosening. Unconsciously he realised their time was running out.

“Lucifer, I-”

“Sam.”  The Fallen interrupted. “I don’t have long here. I’m done, kiddo. Fought the good fight, now see what good it got me.”

There was so much he could say, but all that came to mind was that damned Triumph song. “Lucifer.” He stalled, and hated himself for it.

“It’s okay. I already know. Sucks that you’re only just getting it now, though.”

“You knew?”

“Sure. What did I tell you?”

“M.F.E.O.” That brought a small smile to his lips.

“Yeah, that. Why did you think I made up with dad?”

“You did that for me?”

“Yes, you dumbass.”

Sam laughed at that. It was so absurd.

“What?” Lucifer’s defensive streak fired up.

“I can’t believe you just said that. Quick say something else.”

“Why?”

“I’m not letting your last words be you calling me a dumbass.”

“Well how about me calling you something else?”

“Like what?”

“Pain in the ass. Annoying. Stubborn.” His face, or what was left of it, softened. “Beautiful. Kind. Strong.”

“Lucifer-“

“Don’t. I know it all already. And you better not tell anyone I was so soft in my final moments. I’m not having them think me a coward”

“You’re not a coward.”

“Sam.” He paused, and each second went by all too quickly. “I’m scared. Terrified. Beyond that. I don’t think I want to die.”

“I don’t think I want you to die either.” Sam wanted nothing more than to hold him, to touch him, but he was still too far away. Fear was an ugly mask on his Archangel’s face. He gathered the last of his strength and pushed through. He was only a few feet away now.

“We would have been magnificent.” The light was growing, intensifying as chunks of the echo of Lucifer’s vessel began to disintegrate.

“Magnificent.” His voice echoed Lucifer’s. Nearly there.

“You should probably look away. I can’t hold onto his body much longer.” It was stronger now, burnt into his retinas, forcing its way through the cracks in the shell. Sam found a deep respect for the vessel, for even containing that power for a second seemed impossible.

“Lucifer.” His hand reached out, a hair’s breadth away from the Fallen.

“Sam.” The Archangel agreed. “I-“

With that three things happened at once: first, Sam managed to brush the wrist of the dying Archangel with his fingertips, a brief caress before it was interrupted. Then Lucifer’s last words died as his body disintegrated, echoed in a deafening Enochian that split Sam’s head in two. Finally, the vessel gave out altogether, leaving a blinding light beyond any form Sam could understand. It was beauty, it was power, it was love and hate and fear and joy, and raw utter being. He could feel his skin burning in the dying flame of the Fallen, hair singed and warm blood trickled from his eyes and ears. Still he refused to look away. The shape was awesome, frightening and painful. Fear gripped his body, told him to run, yet he stilled. Wings unfurled from the light, too many to count, each beating its own rhythm, broken, imperfect, yet wonderful. Shapes slid past his vision, forms, animal, object, other, and each one gone before it could be comprehended. But, how it burned. Glory, might, beauty. These words could mean nothing to contain the form before him.

The candle that burns the brightest may be the most beautiful, but it also must die, and so too was this light extinguished.

When the light faded Sam thought he had gone deaf, gone blind. Slowly, too slowly, his eyes adjusted: but how could even the brightest human light compare to what he had seen? Morningstar indeed. Sam felt like his senses had been dulled, no sound would ever feel loud, no light bright, no space great, and no emotion could even hope to compare to the light of the dead Archangel. Lucifer was gone, and with him a part of Sam. He had never felt so empty.

Time had resumed, and Sam’s ears rung with Lucifer’s last words, his eyes permanently scarred with the image. He didn’t even need to translate the Enochian, the words had been a part of him since the moment they had been spoken. He took one last regretful look at the vessel.

“I loved you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Short and sweet because I can't commit. I feel like I'm finally coming out of the closet as a Samifer shipper: I may be late to the party, but I'm bringing snacks.  
> As always, all mistakes are my own.


End file.
